


The Mountain that Fell

by Callali



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Everything in its Rightful Place, F/M, Supernatural Elements, post-adwd
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-20
Updated: 2016-04-20
Packaged: 2018-06-03 09:04:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6604918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Callali/pseuds/Callali
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fire also cleanses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Mountain that Fell

            He came for them in the night as the firelight cringed against the trees lining the clearing. It had been a clear, cool night: their footfalls had sent the musk of fallen leaves dusting up into the air, the fragrance settling around them as they made camp. He came for them in the night as they lie together in their nest of cloaks and limbs and breath. It had been cloudless, windless: Sansa had looked up into the stars which looked only an arm’s length away, allowing her thoughts to take the shapes of hopes and dreams for the first time in years. He came for them in the moment they were most at peace, the moment they were most free.

            First: the stench. It was the smell of rot and decay, of dungeons and fish bones and blood turned black. It wriggled its way past the first threads of a dream, past the rise and fall of the chest she laid her cheek upon. Wolflike, she breathed in, stilled her breath, turned her hearing outward. She knew. Gods, she knew.

            She could not move. She was not frozen with fear—no, not this little bird who had grown wings, not this forest child with leaves in her hair and dirt under her nails. She was not afraid. It was a mournful longing that allowed her to close her eyes once more, spend one more moment in his arms, spend one more moment in this life. They smelled like the road and like the forest around them and like each other; she breathed deep, searching for their own smell under the encroaching rot. Here, in her final moments, she prayed for deliverance: not from death, but from severance. She wished to go with him, or to take him with her, it mattered not. _Only let us be together,_ she whispered to the maiden, the mother, the crone. They were ancient and divine, but best of all, they were women. They would know the ache that threatened to spread her ribs apart; they would have a name for it, she was sure. Sansa did not want a cold eternity. There were things owed to her.

            Then, the crashing. The gnaw of steel hinges poorly oiled, of something too large to exist stubbornly existing anyway. The sound did not belong here in their forest. Even the animals were still. The scream of metal on metal seemed almost too measured, too rhythmic. Men did not walk through the forest evenly. This was no man. Something deep and old told her this. She heard it from far off. She wished for Lady.

            He would stir soon, she knew. He dared not tread too deeply into sleep, for his brother waited for him there. His brother waited for him everywhere. There was nowhere in the seven kingdoms or seven heavens or seven hells he could go to escape. This was the mountain he carried on his back. There would be sorrow when he realized his brother’s shadow had fallen upon him once again. There was no escape. She soothed his heavy brow for the last time, committing his face to memory. He woke.

            If the space between her waking and his had been a moment, the space between his waking and the first charge spanned eons. He stood in the clearing, tall and strong, his sword poised and ready. Sansa had known he would fight: it was all he knew. Even if he had wished to lie down and die, his muscles would have fought on their own accord. She quietly stoked the fire behind him. They were familiar with this ground. It was better to stay, and not to fight somewhere else. His face was set in determination, in focus, but there was a sadness only she knew, a resignation. Sandor Clegane would not have ever expected to be free.

            _It_ crashed between trees and into the clearing—finally, blessedly. It would all be over soon. It was not a man. Its helm hissed and gurgled and echoed, empty and dark. Sandor’s face fell. She ached for him.

            It was a queer thing for her, to watch the dance of destruction happening feet from her and feel nothing but sadness and do nothing but wish that things had been different. She had been fighting for so long—they both had. It should not have been so. She wanted it to be over quickly. She _wanted…_

            Somehow, Sandor held his ground. The thing hissed and lunged, over and over, ruthless but mindless and almost pitiful in its singular hate. It was not trying to kill Sandor: he was merely in the way. It wanted _her._ That was its mission. Sansa felt cold, relentless hands around her neck, felt the rough bark of a tree as her head cracked open against it. Suddenly, her sadness was gone. This would not be her fate. Sandor had been fighting for far longer than she; who was she to lie back and wait? They had come this far. There were reasons. There had to be.

            In one loud, slow moment, with the clash of steel ringing in her ears, Sansa understood. Nature has its cycles, as does life. Songs always end back at the beginning. History repeats. Oh yes, it does. It does.

            A ripped hem, a thick stick, a torch. It had a sick, bubbling symmetry to it. Was this bloodlust? Sansa wanted the Mountain to burn like all the seven hells, to melt into oblivion. Her work was quick. Her heart thudded.

            He was aware of her always, _always._ He turned to her before she even screamed his name, echoing her cry into the dark woods. He saw her torch: her little light she held in her little claws. He understood.

Sandor circled away easily: the thing was stupid, a mound of rot, an animated nothing.

Such a small thing, her torch, yet whatever evil was made of took easily to flame.

Embers drifted up and up, swirling higher.

Dark blood spat out onto the forest floor.

And the Mountain fell.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't really know how to feel about this. I just kinda... couldn't stop thinking about it. All the usual disclaimers apply. As always, thanks for reading.


End file.
